


Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors I

by days_of_storm



Series: Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:28:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days_of_storm/pseuds/days_of_storm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock injures himself in a very unfortunate place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Silly Consulting Detectives and Competent Ex-Army Doctors I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verityburns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verityburns/gifts).



> This was written as a birthday present for Verity Burns in January 2012.

  
  
The sun had just risen when Sherlock had flung himself against the old wooden door, bursting through the back of the house in which they had suspected the killer.  
  
Well, someone in there had definitely committed a crime of some sort, because as soon as John and Sherlock had entered the darkened room, a shadow had risen from a corner and used the second which John and Sherlock needed to get used to the darkness to race out of the room and leave through the front door. John had sprinted after him, but when he had reached the door it had been locked from the outside. Cursing, he yelled at Sherlock to find the backdoor.  
  
He could see that Sherlock must have hurt himself crashing through that door, but it was open and Sherlock was gone before John could ask whether he was alright. A mile down, John found Sherlock practically sitting on the man, who was thankfully unarmed and not in the mood to fight Sherlock.  
  
Only when Lestrade had come to pick him up and Sherlock took him through the events of the night (yes, he knew Lestrade had said to wait for the morning, and yes he knew he should have called but there had been no time and look what they had managed to do) did John notice that Sherlock was putting his weight on his left leg, and when they were free to leave, Sherlock simply stayed where he was, waiting for Lestrade and his crew to go.  
  
“You okay?” John asked, taking a step back to look at Sherlock properly. “You hurt yourself,” he then said, hoping that Sherlock would actually tell him and not just ignore his well-being as he so often did.  
  
“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock said, sounding convinced. John couldn’t quite tell whether the colour of his face was paler than usual because the sun turned his skin golden, but he was sure that Sherlock was in real pain.  
  
“Can you walk?”  
  
Sherlock nodded and then sucked his lower lip into his mouth and took a step forward. John was thankfully standing close enough to catch him and keep him upright when Sherlock’s left leg suddenly gave out. “Obviously not,” he sighed. “Tell me where it hurts.”  
  
Sherlock inhaled sharply and tried to regain control over his legs.  
  
“Sherlock!” John could already tell from his mulishness that his injury was probably not very serious concerning the physical aspect, but very serious concerning his pride. With a grin he narrowed it down to a handful of places which could have been hurt during is little stunt.  
  
“Gluteus maximus,” Sherlock finally murmured, “and don’t you dare laugh.”  
  
John bit his tongue and stopped breathing for a moment to keep the laughter at bay, but then he realised that it would indeed be a bad thing if Sherlock had injured himself right there and that sobered him up. He carefully placed his hand on Sherlock’s hip. It wasn’t displaced; so it could be a sinew or a muscle. He pushed his hand down, grabbing a handful of Sherlock’s arse.  
Sherlock actually yelled in pain.  
  
“Okay, I’m sorry. We’re going to have to get you home somehow.” Despite the absurdity of the situation he did feel rather bad for Sherlock’s glorious bum.  
  
Before he could make up his mind about how to proceed, Sherlock raised his arm and, as if by magic, a cab pulled up right next to them. John tried to get Sherlock into the car without making things worse, but sitting down wasn’t such a grand idea either, so Sherlock ended up lying halfway across the seat, grunting every time the taxi rounded a corner.  
  
John asked more than once whether Sherlock wanted to go to the hospital, but Sherlock answered through gritted teeth that he’d rather crawl up the stairs to their flat than have any doctor try to fix him. Well, with the exception of one certain doctor.  
  
John tried not to get too excited about that prospect. “I’m neither a physiotherapist nor a chiropractor,” he reminded Sherlock, who was clawing at the handle above the door, trying to take the pressure off his middle. It took him a while to answer.  
  
“But you know what it’s supposed to feel like, so you’ll be able to at least formulate a diagnosis.”  
  
John caught the eye of the driver and kept his answer to himself. He was thankful that the man sped up a bit and Sherlock was too busy not sitting on his arse to say anything else.  
  
When they entered Baker Street, John started to wonder just how Sherlock was supposed to get up the stairs to their flat. For a moment he considered asking the cabby to help him carry Sherlock up, but as soon as he had paid and manhandled his rather uncooperative friend out of the taxi, the driver stepped on the accelerator and was gone before he could formulate the question.  
  
Well then. “Sherlock. You might be in pain, but your legs are actually working, so could you please try to use them?” John more or less carried Sherlock to the door and was now confronted with a new problem: Getting the key out of his pocket while he needed both arms to hold up the world’s only consulting detective. Thankfully, Sherlock wasn’t completely immobile and after a moment he fished for his key and unlocked the door.  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
Getting Sherlock upstairs was a rather difficult thing to do and John swore under his breath as he dragged the suddenly very heavy man into their flat. He was properly out of breath when he let go of Sherlock. “I’ll never ask you to eat again,” he grunted, stretching his back and wondering what to do now.  
  
“The kitchen table should work.”  
  
John stared at Sherlock. He was right, of course, but the kitchen table had stood in as a bed more often than was probably good for it.  
  
“Sherlock, are you sure you’re in pain?”  
  
“Are you suggesting that I am pretending to convince you to pull down my trousers?” Sherlock smirked.  
  
John sighed. “Something along the lines, yes.”  
  
Instead of an answer, Sherlock started unbuttoning the coat and dropped it where he stood. Then he stared undoing his trousers, but John stepped closer and batted his hands away. “You are not going to get naked here. We’ll get you into the kitchen first.”  
  
“Oh, good. So you see sense.”  
  
“I’ll leave you here,” John warned, pulling one long arm over his shoulder and wrapping his own around Sherlock’s waist. He wished he would be less affected by touching him like this, but apparently neither his brain nor his body were quite on his side; and hadn’t really been since Sherlock had told him where it hurt.  
  
In the kitchen, John made Sherlock stand again, both hands on the table, legs close together. “Don’t move,” John ordered as he stepped behind Sherlock and undid his trousers. He could feel Sherlock stand a little straighter when he unzipped him.  
  
Fine. Sherlock seemed adamant to enjoy this as much as he could; he should do the same. With one swift move he pushed the cotton down to his knees, taking Sherlock’s underwear with him.  
  
There was a bruise forming on Sherlock’s right buttock and John had to grin. “It looks as if someone gave you a proper spanking,” he said, watching Sherlock’s body still at his words. He carefully placed his hand over the bruise and squeezed. Sherlock grunted and pulled away.  
  
“Does that hurt?”  
  
“Hard to say.”  
  
“Hard?” John smirked and placed a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades.  
  
“Do it again on the other side so I can compare.”  
  
John was happy to do as he was asked. The grunt which escaped Sherlock definitely sounded much less pained than the one before.  
  
“Maybe we should cool it.”  
  
Silence.  
  
“Sherlock I am not going to bend you over this table...”  
  
“How else am I supposed to get rid of the cramps?”  
  
“What cramps, you didn’t say anything about cramps.”  
  
“Keep up, John.”  
  
John straightened and looked at Sherlock, who was still wearing his jacket, his trousers pooled below his knees, one buttock slowly turning purple as the other remained as white as it was.  
  
“You know, fuck this.” He stepped back and was about to turn around and leave him like this when Sherlock lowered himself onto the table and exhaled noisily. “Thank you.”  
  
“For f...,” John couldn’t believe Sherlock. “You know I should just jam a shot into that arse of yours. You know it would hurt.”  
  
“Stop with the metaphors,” Sherlock advised, spreading his arms out as if he was in fact lying on the bed, waiting for John to claim what was his.  
  
“I am certainly not making love to you like this. Sherlock, you couldn’t properly stand just a minute ago and now you want me to do the one thing that will make things worse?”  
  
“I’m sure there are other things which would make it much worse.”  
  
“I can’t. Not on the table, not like this.”  
  
“Fine, the couch?”  
  
“You _are_ making it worse, Sherlock.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
“No. Not. Good. God, I’m going to need some ice myself.”  
  
“Don’t spoil it.”  
  
John huffed and walked around the table until he stood in front of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock had the nerve to reach out towards his crotch. With a grunt, John pinned Sherlock’s hand to the table.  
  
“Stop it,” he said, hoping he sounded serious enough to break Sherlock’s determination. He was fairly sure that he didn’t.  
  
He lowered himself until he could look Sherlock straight in the eye. “You and me had a long night and we are both tired. If you want me to make you feel better, I can either take care of your injury or make it worse. Guess which it will be.”  
  
Sherlock just licked his lips and John started to suspect that he had lost this game a long time ago.  
  
“You could use oil,” Sherlock said calmly.  
  
“To do what exactly?” John hoped Sherlock wouldn’t notice that he squeezed himself through his jeans.  
  
“To massage the rigidification.”  
  
John laughed so hard he fell on his own arse. “God, why do you have to be such an insufferable smart-arse.”  
  
“The smarting isn’t all that insufferable,” Sherlock said, trying to keep his grin at bay.  
  
“Fuck you!” John leaned back against the cupboard.  
  
“We’ve been over this, John. Remember?”  
  
“Goddamnit, Sherlock!”  
  
“Come one, the sooner you do this the sooner we can go to bed.”  
  
“Do what?” John asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest.  
  
“Massage the cramps away.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
Sherlock simply raised his head to vaguely indicate his back.  
  
“I should ice it and leave it alone,” John said, determined now to not react to Sherlock’s ambiguous notions.  
  
“The bruise, yes, but the muscles around it definitely need your special touch.”  
  
“Touch, huh?”  
  
“Touch,” Sherlock repeated, and John noted that he didn’t seem annoyed at that. Apparently the entire process had brought Sherlock out of his head, at least for a bit.  
  
“If you come it’ll just cause you more cramps.”  
  
“Oh come on John, you don’t know that.”  
  
John stood up and stalked through the kitchen, aware of but ignoring his own little problem. “I might not be a physiotherapist, but I do know your arse.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“That wasn’t a compli...”  
  
“Yes it was, and I’m flattered.”  
  
“You’re not flattered, you’re desperate for me to take the pain away by making you come.”  
  
“Perfectly sound analysis. You know how you can make me feel better and yet you refuse.”  
  
“Catch 22,” John muttered and Sherlock looked seriously confused for a moment. “Never mind.”  
  
He opened the freezer and produced an ice pack which he wrapped in a tea towel.  
  
“John?” Sherlock tried to see what John was doing. He probably knew, but John appreciated his acting, though he would never tell him that.  
  
“Compromise,” John offered.  
  
“Okay.”  
  
“I didn’t even tell you what.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
John took a long hard look at Sherlock, wishing that he wasn’t injured and that he wasn’t still wearing his jacket and ... wait, that was not what he was supposed to think.  
  
“The compromise is that you walk upstairs and get into bed on your own. Without holding onto the rails and without saying a word. If you manage to do that I’ll make love to you.”  
  
Sherlock sniffed. “That’s not what you meant to say,” he accused.  
  
“It’s what I said. Take it or leave it. Oh, and I’m going to ice your arse either way, understood?”  
  
Sherlock remained motionless and quiet for a while; something which John automatically counted as a win. Then he pushed himself up on his arms, grunting, “yes, sir.”  
  
John felt his cock twitch. Sherlock didn’t know what it did to him when he responded in that fashion and he was incredibly glad about it. He couldn’t have Sherlock know all his weaknesses.  
  
“Ohh,” Sherlock said as he looked at his face and then down his body, “interesting.”  
  
Well fuck it, John thought, praying that Sherlock might delete this newly gathered information in favour of different kinds of cotton threads.  
  
“Go on.”  
  
Sherlock still held on to the table, he noticed, and he was biting his tongue. “Can you pull up my trousers?”  
  
“No,” John shook his head and turned to go, using the ice pad to cool himself off for a moment.  
  
“You’re cheating,” Sherlock remarked from somewhere near the ground. He had bent down, trying to pull up his trousers, and John could see that he was in pain.  
  
“No talking!”  
  
Sherlock stood up straight, a petulant look on his face. Then he inhaled deeply and bent down again, finally managing to pull up his trousers. He looked a bit pale when he stood again and John felt that maybe he should have been stricter on him from the beginning.  
  
“If you faint ...” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Sherlock cleared his throat, inhaled again and then took a step forward. John almost expected him to collapse, but Sherlock managed to keep upright and John started walking ahead, slowly moving upstairs. He could hear Sherlock’s pain in his breathing and for a moment he felt horrible about the entire situation, but he would get him upstairs without having to carry him. Well, that wasn’t exactly nice of him either, was it?  
  
He stopped and turned around and Sherlock almost bumped into him. He stood one step below John, sweat on his forehead and a very pained expression on his face.  
  
John wrapped his arms around him and hugged him while he also tried to hold him up. “I’m a horrible boyfriend,” he said against Sherlock’s neck. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Then he turned around and pulled Sherlock’s arms around his shoulders. “Up you go.”  
  
Sherlock gasped when he wrapped his legs around John’s hips, but he managed and John walked them both upstairs and into his bedroom.  
  
“Why not mine?” Sherlock asked when John petted his hand to signal him to let go now. Sherlock didn’t move.  
  
“Because,” John simply said, trying to push Sherlock’s legs away. “Sherlock I am going to drop you on the bed.”  
  
“You were just talking about how bad of a boyfriend you are.”  
  
“Babysitter, more like.”  
  
“One who sleeps with ...”  
  
“Sherlock!” John pushed hard and he finally managed to get him to stand.  
  
“I didn’t finish the sentence,” he said as he limped to the bed.  
  
“You are impossible.”  
  
For a moment they just stared at each other, but then Sherlock let himself fall on his left side and moaned, clearly in pain. “Can I have the ice?” He held out his hand. “Please?” he added, making John hate himself a bit.  
  
He walked over and knelt in front of the bed, gently pressing the cooling pad on Sherlock’s bruise. “Why do you always have to be such a smart ...” he stopped, noticing that he was about to start off the conversation from earlier again.  
  
“I do have cramps,” Sherlock admitted, his face void of any mirth.  
  
“Where? Let me make it better,” John said gently, running a hand through Sherlock’s hair. “I’m sorry I made you walk.”  
  
Sherlock slowly rolled onto his stomach. “Just below the bruise. I must have hit a nerve and it keeps cramping.”  
  
“Oh Jesus, Sherlock. What if it gets inflamed and ... I shouldn’t touch this.”  
  
“Please, just see what happens?”  
  
“Fine, but if you feel pain that is different from cramps you tell me.”  
  
Sherlock nodded and then let go of the ice pad to reach out for John, pulling him close. He kissed him slowly and deeply and John realised how tired they really were. The last bit of the adrenaline was wearing off and he knew they’d have to sleep before any sex could commence.  
  
When he moved away, he couldn’t help but smile. “I can’t believe you did this to your arse.”  
  
Sherlock’s lips twitched. “I had to open the door somehow.”  
  
“Usually people use their shoulders.”  
  
“I can see why,” Sherlock remarked drily. John snorted.  
  
“Right.” He moved to sit on the bed next to Sherlock and started to undress him. Then he replaced the cooling pad, holding on to it with his right while his left carefully tested the skin below the bruise. He could feel a tremble run through the muscle under his fingers. “’S that hurt?”  
  
Sherlock shook his head. He has crossed his arms above his head and was burying his face in a pillow.  
  
So John pushed harder, causing Sherlock to suddenly yell in pain. “Okay, I think I found it,” he announced, knowing that Sherlock was rolling his eyes, despite the pain. He carefully followed the hardened muscle down Sherlock’s thigh. He understood now why Sherlock had had a hard time walking. And he knew that oil probably wasn’t such a bad idea.  
  
“Sherlock, hold on to the pad, will you?”  
  
Reluctantly, Sherlock placed his hand over the ice pad. John crawled over the bed and fished the massage oil out of the drawer of his night stand. Then he warmed some oil in his hands and started to massage Sherlock’s upper thigh.  
  
It became very obvious very quickly that the pain gave way to pleasure in an impressively short amount of time. While John tried to make himself believe that he was still massaging at a cramping muscle, the ever more obvious movement against the bed from Sherlock’s side spoke of something else entirely.  
  
“Sherlock, lie still,” he ordered, holding his breath when Sherlock stilled completely but then lifted his head to groan.  
  
“Does it feel better?”  
  
“Do the other side?” Sherlock asked, and John had to smile because he sounded both exhausted and very needy.  
  
“No.”  
  
Sherlock pushed himself up on his elbows, his back arching beautifully and John wanted to dip his tongue into the dimples above his arse.  
  
John could see Sherlock trying to find the right words to make him change his mind, but he also knew that Sherlock was unsure whether he actually meant no.  
  
“You are going to get up now, see whether you can actually walk and then you will put on some pants so the ice pad will stay in place.”  
  
Sherlock turned around, ignoring the pain in favour of shooting little daggers at John with his eyes. Then he exhaled noisily and grabbed John’s hand, almost making him lose balance, and pushed it against his erection.  
  
John knew that he would suffer if he didn’t humour Sherlock now, so he tentatively curled his fingers around the hot flesh. Sherlock gasped and squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
“At least you’ll sleep for a while,” John mused as he lazily stroked up and down. Sherlock arched up and grunted, both because of the relief he felt at John finally giving in and in annoyance because he wouldn’t stop talking.  
  
“I would really,” he moaned, holding tighter on to John’s wrist and forcing him to go faster, “appreciate it,” he arched up and grunted in pain as he dropped down again, “if you would use your mouth,” his breathing turned funny and much quicker, “for something else.” The thought alone seemed to be enough to give him the final push. He pulled his legs closer to his body, his heels digging into the mattress, his left hand scrambled for purchase while the nails of his right hand left little half moon indentations in John’s arm as he came.  
  
John watched, fascinated and very turned on, as Sherlock rode out his orgasm between pleasure and pain. He kept his hand where it was, both because Sherlock still held on to him and because he loved making him squirm when he was so sensitive to his touch.  
  
“Does it feel better now?” he asked with a smile, and Sherlock finally opened his eyes again, slowly relaxing.  
  
“Hmm,” was all he managed.  
  
An hour later Sherlock was quietly snoring against John’s shoulder. John had cleaned him up and then taken a shower and drawn the curtains closed. By the time he had joined Sherlock in bed, he was fast asleep. With a smile John pulled Sherlock closer to him, making sure he could reach his arse, if only to make sure that the cooling pad would stay in place at least for a while. He smiled as he watched the dark curls below him. Whatever Sherlock would say when he woke up, he wouldn’t be able to call him a bad boyfriend and mean it, especially not when John would introduce the recovery plan to him. Sherlock would, of course, note that most of it was an excuse for John’s hands to stay attached to his arse for long periods of time, but that he really wouldn’t mind.


End file.
